


A Different Heaven

by BarefootGirl



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Afterlife, Death, Gen, Happy Ending?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-13
Updated: 2014-08-13
Packaged: 2018-02-13 00:15:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2129832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BarefootGirl/pseuds/BarefootGirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If there are other gods, other faiths, there must also be other heavens....</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Written between the first cup of coffee and the second, so apologies for any typos or narrative fails!</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Different Heaven

He remembers heaven.  Remembers the static sense of memory, reliving an album of greatest hits, the sour feeling when he’d realized that he didn’t share those hits with the ones he’d most loved, that everyone had a different heaven, and the ones around him were echoes, memories…

This… isn’t that.

For one thing, he doesn’t know most of these people.  Any of them, really.

For another, he’s pretty sure he’s never been here before.  He spent his life traveling by car, not train.  Although - and he pauses to appreciate the handsome couple walking past him, dressed up like WWII reenactors - he could get used to mass transit, if it was as classy as this, white-washed walls and brightly-colored murals, arched entrances with intricate carvings and polished brass fittings.  And nobody’s giving him the stink-eye, either, for not being dressed right or not having an invitation.

He looked down at himself: dark jeans, boots, long-sleeved henley.  Everything where and what it should be.  Right?

The thought made him frown.  That was what it should look like, right?

“Dean Winchester?”

He looked up.  “That’s me.”  

The guy standing in front of him was maybe five foot, if that, dressed in a grey flannel suit, a neatly-pressed handkerchief in one pocket, and a silver nametag on his lapel that read, simply, “Gate E.”

“Here’s your passport,” and the man handed him a dark green booklet,  “and your tickets.  Enjoy your journey.”

“Thanks, I will,” he responded automatically, then opened his mouth to ask ‘what the hell, what’s going on?”  But the man - the ticket agent? - was gone, off in another corner of the station already, offering a passport to someone else.

He looked down at his hands, and flipped open the passport, curious.

The memories were like a kick in the face, hitting hard and fast, not the sweet and hazy feelings of Heaven but real, the painful and the wonderful all in one roundhouse swing, and he flipped the cover shut again as fast as he could, breathing a little too hard.

“Eventually you’ll be able to pick through them” a voice said, amused.  “But it takes a while.”

“Thanks, ah-“ he turned, and met a woman’s smile.  She was older, maybe in her sixties, and some faint thought stirred - how old was he?

“Margie,” she said, introducing herself, then she glanced at his tickets.  “Ah, you’re departing soon.  Lucky you.  Don’t worry, they’re remarkably organized here, for all the chaos.  Head over to the gate, they’ll tell you when it’s time to board.”

“Um, thanks.  Where am I going?”

Margie shrugged, a dimple appearing even as a faint, hungry look rested in her eyes.  “No-one knows,” she said.  “I mean, there are theories, aren’t there always?  But you don’t know until you get there, and I suspect once you get there you don’t know where you’ve been, so it’s not really worth worrying about, is it?  Just enjoy the ride.”

“Right.”  He’d never not worried, a moment in his life, but …. 

The hunger in her eyes faded to a resigned weariness, but her smile was kind. “Go on now.  You don’t want to miss your train.”

#

The train was a sleek, powerful thing of chrome and black steel, and he took a moment to appreciate it.  Not Baby, of course, but along the same lines of power and function with just a hint of _fuck you I do what I want._  

Inside, it was all sophisticated comfort, deep grey upholstery and cream-colored curtains against the windows, but he was past feeling awkward or uncomfortable, especially when an old man in a tattered suit shuffled past him, muttering about pigs under his breath.

  
He’d figured it out by now.  This wasn’t Heaven, not the absent-god-dick-angels heaven, anyway, but he was dead.  He’d been reaped, and dropped in this train station, given a ticket to ride…somewhere.  And like Margie said, there wasn’t any point in worrying.  He wasn’t behind the wheel, couldn’t control where they were headed.  But he was still Dean Winchester, and if he didn’t like his destination, he’d go somewhere else.  Couldn’t be that hard, right?  People jumped trains and hitched rides all the time…

  
He should be worried.  He should be asking questions, demanding answers.  But there wasn’t anyone to ask, only fellow passengers, and he suspected none of them knew any more than Margie had. None of them seemed worried, either, although he saw a woman with tear tracks on her face, and a child in pajamas who looked more confused than upset, until someone showed them to their seat.

  
His ticket - which had no destination listed, only the train and gate number - told him he was seat #327L.  He’d gotten on a car too early, but considering the length of the train, that was a small and welcome miracle.  He had a window seat, which was nice, although he’d seen an observation car a few back, the roof a clear dome for viewing, if he started to feel closed in.

The seat might have been made of memory foam, it settled around him so well, and there was - wonders of wonders - enough room to stretch his legs out in front of him, and the armrests were padded, and could be flipped out of the way.  He tested that a time or two, dropped the tray table down and put it away again, then looked out the window, watching other people board.

  
He told himself he wasn’t looking for anyone in particular, just observing the crowd.  Going with the flow, that was the name of the game now.  He leaned back in his chair, felt the warm cushion underneath him, and exhaled, feeling weirdly loose, like someone’d slipped him a higher-class sort of mickey.  Maybe they had.  Maybe this was all a dream, a hallucination, a djinn’s fantasy….

  
He was pretty sure it wasn’t, though.  This had a sort of finality to it that pleased him, after so many false-ends and reboots.  And at the end of the ride, or wherever he got off… 

Margie’s words came back to him, and he shook his head.  Whatever else happened, he’d remember.  He’d remember who he was and what he’d done, the bad as well as the good.  

There was movement, the feel of someone taking the seat next to him, and he opened his eyes slowly, turning to see who his seat companion would be.  He hoped they wouldn’t want to talk, he-

  
“Hello, Dean.” 

**Author's Note:**

> The idea of heaven - a place where you actually exist after death, a reward if you've been good - isn't universal. In many faiths, heaven is a place for a select few, or a theological construct, and reincarnation or dissolution is the final goal. So although SPN has mainly hewed to the Christian mythology, I thought that if someone were open to the possibilities of something beyond what they were taught, someone who knew full-well that there were other gods, other powers...
> 
> well, they might 'choose' another end. And the idea of reincarnation - of getting another chance, a fresh start - might appeal to Dean. Death, certainly, would not begrudge him that.
> 
> And Cas? Maybe he died at the same time. Maybe he'd been delayed in the station until his train arrived. Maybe he faked his ticket, to go with his Righteous Man. You tell me...


End file.
